"Sure sir, yes sir--od's my life, I ought to be--I wrote 'em!"

"Then let's hear 'em and judge. But look'ee, Ben, if they ain't what they are they won't do--not if you were ten thousand Benjamen!"

Sir Benjamin stared, rubbed his chin, shook his head, sighed and read:

"Venus hath left her Grecian isles With all her charms and witching wiles And now all rustic hearts beguiles In bowery Westerham!

"Ye tender herds, ye listening deer Forget your food, forget your fear Our glorious Betty reigneth here In happy Westerham!

"Ye little lambs that on the green In gambols innocent are seen In gleeful chorus hail your queen Sweet Bet of Westerham!

"Ye feathered----"

"Stop!" exclaimed Alvaston. "Your lambs'll never do, Ben!"

"Od sir, I say egad, why not?"

"Because lambs don't hail 'n' if they could hail their hail would be a 'baa' and being a baa Bet would ha' t' be a sheep t' understand 'em which Gad forbid, Ben! An' the bottle's with----"

"A sheep sir, a sheep?" spluttered Sir Benjamin. "Malediction! What d'ye mean?"

"I mean I object t' Betty being turned int' a sheep either by inference, insinuation or induction--I 'ppeal t' the company!"

Here ensued a heated discussion ending in his lordship's objection being quashed, whereupon Sir Benjamin, his face redder than ever and his elegant peruke a little awry, continued:

"Ye feathered songsters blithely sing Ye snowy lambkins frisk and spring To Betty let our gla.s.ses ring In joyous Westerham!"

Sir Benjamin sat down amidst loud acclaim, and there immediately followed a perfervid debate as to the rival merits of the several authors and finally, amid a scene of great excitement, Mr. Marchdale was declared the victor.

And now appeared a mighty bowl of punch flanked by pipes and tobacco at sight of which the company rose in welcome.

"Gentlemen," said Sir Benjamin, grasping silver ladle much as it had been a sceptre, "the Muses have departed but in their stead behold the jovial Bacchus with the attendant sprite yclept Virginia. Gentlemen, it hath been suggested that we shall drink gla.s.s and gla.s.s and----"

"d.a.m.ned be he who first cries 'hold enough'!" murmured Alvaston.

"Gentlemen, the night is young, let now the rosy hours pa.s.s in joyous revelry and good-fellowship!"

So the merry riot waxed and waned, tobacco smoke ascended in filmy wreaths, songs were sung and stories told while ever the gla.s.ses filled and grew empty and the Major, lighting his fifth pipe at a candle, turned to find Lord Cleeve addressing him low-voiced amid the general din across a barricade of empty bottles.

"--don't like it Jack," he was saying, "no duty for a gentleman and King's officer, we're no d.a.m.ned catchpolls ... word hath come in roundabout way of a Jacobite rebel in these parts.... Two o' my captains out with search parties ... poor devil!"

Slowly the clamour of voices and laughter died away, the candles burned low and lower in their sconces and through a blue haze the Major espied Sir Benjamin asprawl in his chair, his fine coat wine-splashed, his great peruke obscuring one eye, snoring gently. Hard by, Alvaston lay forward across the table, his face pillowed upon a plate, deep-plunged in stertorous slumber while the Colonel, sitting opposite, leaned back in his chair and stared up solemnly at the raftered ceiling. Candles were guttering to their end, the long chamber, the inn itself seemed strangely silent and the broad cas.e.m.e.nt already glimmered with the dawn.

"Jack," said the Colonel suddenly, "'tis odd--'tis devilish odd I vow 'tis, but place feels curst--empty!" The Major glanced around the disordered chamber and shivered. "Jack, here's you and here's me--very well! Yonder's Sir Benjamin and Lord Alvaston--very well again! But question is--where's t'others?"

"Why I think, I rather think George, they're under the table."

Hereupon the Colonel made as if to stoop down and look but thought better of it, and stretching out a foot instead, touched something soft and nodded solemnly:

"B'gad Jack--so they are!" said he and sat staring up at the rafters again while the pallid dawn grew brighter at the window.

"Man Jack," he went on with a beaming smile, "'tis a goodish spell since we had an all-night bout together. Last time I mind was in Brabant at----" The Colonel sat up suddenly, staring through the cas.e.m.e.nt where, in the sickly light of dawn, stood a figure which paused opposite the window to stare up at the sleeping inn, and was gone.

"Refuse me!" exclaimed the Colonel, still staring wide of eye, "Jack--did ye see it?"

"Aye, George!"

"Then Jack if we're not drunk we ought to be--but drunk or no, we've seen a ghost!"

"Whose, George?"

"Why, the spirit of that ravishing satyr, that black rogue you killed years ago in Flanders--Effingham, by Gad!"

"Ah!" sighed the Major.

CHAPTER XXVII

HOW THE SERGEANT RECOUNTED AN OLD STORY

Viscount Merivale sat alone in the hutch-like sentry-box; his handsome face was unduly grave, his brow care-worn and he bit at his carefully tended nails, which last was a thing in him quite phenomenal.

All at once he clenched his fist and smote it softly on the table:

"d.a.m.n him!" he muttered and sat scowling at his torn nails. "Ha, madam, it seems you are like to be the death o' me yet! ... O Woman!

... Howbeit, fight him I will!" Here, chancing to lift his frowning gaze, he saw the Sergeant approaching with a spade on his shoulder.

"What, Zebedee!" he called. The Sergeant glanced round, wheeled and, halting before the arbour, stood at attention. "Ha, Zeb, good old Zeb, come your ways. Sit down, yes, yes, here beside me. I'm beset by devils, Zeb, devils d.a.m.ned of deepest blue, your honest phiz shall fright 'em hence, mayhap--stay though!" The Viscount rose and drew his sword: "That lunge o' yours in tierce, Zeb, 'tis a sweet stroke and sufficiently deadly, show me the 'haviour on't. 'Twas somewhat on this wise as I remember." And falling into a graceful fencing posture, the Viscount made his long, narrow blade flash and dart viciously while Sergeant Zebedee, taking himself by the chin, watched with the eye of a connoisseur. "'Twas so, I think, Zeb?" The Sergeant smiled grimly and shook his head.

"You've got same all mixed up wi' fashionable school-play, Master Pancr--Tom, my lud, which though pretty ain't by no means the real thing."

"How so, Zebedee?"

"Why sir, this here posturing and flourishing is well enough a-'twixt fine gentlemen as happens to draw on each other after a bottle or to wipe out an ill word in a drop or so o' blood--yes. But 'tis different when you're opposite a skilled duellist as means to kill. His honour the Major now, he learned in a hard school and his honour learned me."

"He's had several affairs I think, Zeb?"

"Twenty and two, sir!"

"Ha!" sighed the Viscount, "I've had one and got p.r.i.c.ked in the thigh!

Here, show me the way on't, Sergeant." So saying, he turned weapon across forearm and bowing in true academic manner, proffered the jewelled hilt to the Sergeant who took it, tested spring and balance of the blade with practised hands, saluted and fell to the "engage"; then he lunged swiftly and recovered, all in a moment.

"'Tis a stroke hard to parry, sir!" said he.